Janie Chodosh's Blog
September 24, 2014
The Impossible Knife of Memory, young-adult book review
Since I write for a young adult audience, I read a lot of YA fiction. I recently read Laurie Halse Anderson’s The Impossible Knife of Memory. Laurie Halse Anderson is one of my favorite young adult writers. In fact, one of the first YA books I read was her novel, Catalyst. The Impossible Knife of Memory lived up to my high standards. What I loved most about this book was the snappy dialogue between Hayley, the protagonist, and her eventual love interest, Finn. Their banter, which ranges from snarky/sarcastic to hilarious to poignant, hums with real-life teenage vitality. Teens do so love to take linguistic jabs at each other, and the dialogue perfectly captures that artful use of language. There is a deeper side to this story, too, the relationship between a veteran father suffering from PTSD and his teenage daughter. Haley’s first person narration is interwoven with her father’s flashbacks of his devastating war experience, allowing the reader a glimpse into the root of his suffering. The book is nuanced with themes of memory and trust and how to move on when you’ve hit rock bottom.
March 25, 2014
Writing for teens part one
On April first of this year, my first young adult novel, Death Spiral, A Faith Flores Science Mystery comes out with the Poisoned Pencil Press. I’ve always loved to write, and have written several complete manuscripts, but in writing for young adults, I found my voice. So how does a woman in her in mid-forties conjure the teen experience?
The first answer is that four mornings a week I teach high school English, so the banter of teens is a daily part of my life. I listen. I watch. I take in their verbal linguistics. I don’t try and copy their lingo; lingo changes as does anything in pop culture—yesterday’s ‘dude’ is today’s ‘bro.’ But there is something timeless about the way teens talk. Something creative in the way they jab at each other, in the way they find irony and humor in the darkest of places, in the way their moods and emotions, even when they’re trying to hide behind their hair, flare on their faces. If you want to write for young adults and you don’t have a teen, find one. Borrow one. Coerce one to talk to you (if they will). Most of all, listen. Listen to their cadence, to the way they interact, and most importantly, to what they have to say.
Stay tuned for part two of writing for teens!
The first answer is that four mornings a week I teach high school English, so the banter of teens is a daily part of my life. I listen. I watch. I take in their verbal linguistics. I don’t try and copy their lingo; lingo changes as does anything in pop culture—yesterday’s ‘dude’ is today’s ‘bro.’ But there is something timeless about the way teens talk. Something creative in the way they jab at each other, in the way they find irony and humor in the darkest of places, in the way their moods and emotions, even when they’re trying to hide behind their hair, flare on their faces. If you want to write for young adults and you don’t have a teen, find one. Borrow one. Coerce one to talk to you (if they will). Most of all, listen. Listen to their cadence, to the way they interact, and most importantly, to what they have to say.
Stay tuned for part two of writing for teens!
March 4, 2014
A sense of humor, always
So, I am putting my daughter to bed. It is 9:30. I am exhausted. She is nine. She should've been asleep an hour ago. What else to do but laugh? (Well, there is a lot one COULD do). Tonight I chose laughter.
Which makes me remember: last year we had a massive flood in our house (a flood in New Mexico during a drought?) Yes, well, the city main water line at the top of our steep driveway burst and flooded not ten, not five, not even two houses. Just ours. Yep. We got lucky.
When a fireman was finally able to get into our house, (mind you this was about 2am) I looked at his very muddy feet on our mud soaked floor, and said, "Oh, please wipe your feet." A moment of levity in a not very light situation.
This is how I feel about writing serious YA mysteries. There must be humor. I can't force my characters to be funny, but when Faith, my protagonist, and Jesse, her love interest are together, I am always glad when I can find a way to drive some wit and humor into the scene.
As I told myself tonight, a sense of humor, always. I think teen readers appreciate this as much as tired parents.
Which makes me remember: last year we had a massive flood in our house (a flood in New Mexico during a drought?) Yes, well, the city main water line at the top of our steep driveway burst and flooded not ten, not five, not even two houses. Just ours. Yep. We got lucky.
When a fireman was finally able to get into our house, (mind you this was about 2am) I looked at his very muddy feet on our mud soaked floor, and said, "Oh, please wipe your feet." A moment of levity in a not very light situation.
This is how I feel about writing serious YA mysteries. There must be humor. I can't force my characters to be funny, but when Faith, my protagonist, and Jesse, her love interest are together, I am always glad when I can find a way to drive some wit and humor into the scene.
As I told myself tonight, a sense of humor, always. I think teen readers appreciate this as much as tired parents.
March 3, 2014
Excerpt from "Death Spiral"
The only good junkie is a dead junkie. They’re at the bottom of everything. Down there with hookers and drunks. When a junkie dies, no one investigates. They call it an overdose and close the book.
I should know. My mom was one.
The day after my sixteenth birthday there she was, my mother, dead on the bathroom floor. Just out of the shower. Her hair still wet. I remember that. Thinking if her hair was wet, she couldn’t be dead.
But she was dead, and just like that, the only thing left of my mother was her stuff. I called Aunt Theresa, then the cops. An officer poked around our apartment and scribbled a few notes. Heroin overdose was listed as the official cause of death. Of course. Mom was a junkie. What else would she die of? Everyone bought the story.
Everyone except me.
I should know. My mom was one.
The day after my sixteenth birthday there she was, my mother, dead on the bathroom floor. Just out of the shower. Her hair still wet. I remember that. Thinking if her hair was wet, she couldn’t be dead.
But she was dead, and just like that, the only thing left of my mother was her stuff. I called Aunt Theresa, then the cops. An officer poked around our apartment and scribbled a few notes. Heroin overdose was listed as the official cause of death. Of course. Mom was a junkie. What else would she die of? Everyone bought the story.
Everyone except me.
